


The Hand that Rocks the Cradle

by saisei



Series: Original Lifeline [5]
Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Beta/Omega, Beta/Omega/Omega, Forced Pregnancy, M/M, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Past Child Abuse, Past Male Pregnancy, Past Rape/Non-con, World of Ruin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-18
Updated: 2019-01-24
Packaged: 2019-08-25 11:04:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,563
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16659919
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saisei/pseuds/saisei
Summary: Noct is gone, the world is dark, Ignis refuses the son he bore, and Prompto takes him in. Gladio's going to do whatever it takes to keep them together, though, and over the years, their friendship grows into family.





	1. The First Year

"Come on," Gladio says, socking Ignis in the shoulder to get his attention. "Let's go kill some shit."

He doesn't say _because you'll feel better_ ; maybe Ignis won't. He's been prickly and moody ever since he had the baby, and Prompto says Ignis has held the kid maybe four, five times since then. He's shown no interest in being a parent, not that Gladio blames him. He can think of plenty of reasons for Ignis to be depressed, but he's also a wicked good fighter who needs to get back out into the field. He just needs to learn how to kick ass while blind, and this is Gladio, offering his services as personal trainer.

"Those daemons aren't going to slaughter themselves," he adds.

"Wouldn't it be delightful if they did, though," Ignis murmurs, the corner of his mouth twitching like that's all the amusement he can spare.

Gladio'll take it. 

They pick up a handful of easy hunts and head out a few days later. Gladio has a borrowed truck and a curriculum of skills Ignis needs to work on, exercises he can do; Ignis prepped by taking Prompto with him to the market to shop for supplies and food. Not great food – not even pretty good food, given rationing – but the effort's appreciated.

They leave Prompto in charge of the baby and Gladio promises Iris her own daemon-slaying lessons in return for helping him out. And then they're on the other side of the fence, free in the great dark world, danger all around them, their lives dependent on their skills and weapons. Ignis has his moments of being appallingly incompetent, but they are fewer with each passing day. Gladio's satisfied, and he's pleased to see Ignis chirking up, looking smug as he cleans and sharpens his daggers and messes about with poisons.

They talk about business and not much more, but that feels comfortable enough. When they spar at camp, Ignis trusts Gladio and the ground enough to execute some of his acrobatic moves. He's lean and lethal, no trace of baby-weight on his stomach or hips, and his blindness is less and less a weakness Gladio can exploit. When they finish off the last of the hunts, he slings one arm over Ignis' shoulders and tucks him up against his side, the both of them covered head to toe in sweat, blood, and slime.

"You looking forward to heading back to the land of hot showers and real food?" he asks, steering Ignis toward the truck.

Ignis makes a non-committal noise; he's stubbornly insisted that their meals have been fine, albeit relentlessly boiled. "Have you been humoring me?"

"Have I what?"

"I know I've been... quiet... since Noct – since Zegnautus Keep. I am beyond grateful to you and Prompto for your concern. But while this getaway has been pleasant, how much of it was a carefully gifted illusion of what I must accept is gone?"

Gladio huffs out a loud breath, not sure if he's amused or angry. "You're not ready to hunt solo, and for the next few months there's stuff I want to see you improve before you go out with hunters not as good as me, but you tell me. You feel like you can't hold your own against some goblins?"

"I _feel_ like I could kill them all cheerfully with one hand tied behind my back," Ignis snaps, irritated. "But – "

"That's the murderous bastard I know and love," Gladio interrupts, and gives Ignis a friendly shake that nearly sends him stumbling. "And hey, speaking of bastards – "

"Fuck off," Ignis says, whip-quick. Gladio has never, ever head him swear before, and he's so startled he nearly chokes on his own laughter. It sounds so _polite_ in Ignis' perfect court accent.

When he's able to breathe again, he continues: "You got to tell Prompto the kid's not Noct's. I can see him wondering, and pretty soon he's going to assume."

"You do it." Ignis shakes his head. "If you must. Then, please."

Gladio's glad Ignis is seeing sense and he hates to push his luck, but he has to ask. "How much can I tell him?"

"I leave the matter entirely up to your discretion."

Under his arm, he can feel how tense Ignis is, and he's sorry for that. "Thanks." And then, he remembers. " _Shit._ I promised Iris I'd bring her some fangs and claws. Help me look?"

The look Ignis levels at him is scathing, if slightly off-center. "Certainly not."

*

Back in the city, chances to get Prompto alone aren't thick on the ground. They've rented two rooms on the top floor of a house that's full of refugees and hunters, and there are always people hanging out in the common rooms or knocking on the door to ask for advice or to deliver messages. It's overwhelmingly unlike life back in Insomnia. Gladio finally decides to tag along with Prompto when he takes the baby for the six-month check up.

"I need to talk to you," Gladio explains, and Prompto gives him a sharp knowing glance.

"After the appointment. We're already running late."

Weirdly, it calms Gladio down to see the kid weighed and measured, and hear Prompto talk about the stuff he can do now. Rolling, babbling, starting to eat rice gruel. To his shame, Gladio realizes that sometimes he forgets the kid is perfectly normal.

When the nurse has recorded all the data and bustled off, Prompto re-dresses the baby and settles him in the sling across his chest with practiced ease. They go to the park, which is blessedly deserted at this early hour.

"I asked Ignis and he said I could tell you about the kid's other father," Gladio starts. He doesn't believe in beating around the bush. Plus he just wants to get this conversation over with.

"Marcus," Prompto cuts in. "Except I mostly say Marco, because I had an Uncle Marcus, too, so it feels weird. Not half as weird as you never calling him by name and Ignis not wanting anything to do with him, though."

"Ignis is messed up," Gladio agrees. "But you got to know that it means the world to him how much you love the... Marcus. Marco. I'm not sure he's capable of that," he adds by way of warning, though the Six know Ignis can and will do most anything he sets his mind to.

Prompto is a fidgeter. He's been idly letting Marco grab at his fingers and then shaking his little fists, but now his free hand strays up to mess with the kid's hair, which sticks straight up, every which way. "Noct isn't his father," he says, watching wispy brown strands slide through his fingers.

"No."

"Good," Prompto says fiercely. "Because you act like Iggy was hurt, and I've been... I really didn't want it to be Noct."

Shit. Poor Prompto. Gladio should have had this talk months ago. "It's a bad story," he admits, "and all I know is what I've dragged out of Ignis. How much do you want to hear?"

Prompto closes his eyes for a moment, but they're piercing when he opens them. "Everything you know. Of anyone, I'm the least likely to hold against anyone how they came to be born. Or created. Whatever."

Well, then. "Ignis was sleeping with the King when he joined the Crownsguard, up until we left. He didn't want to get pregnant, it just – accident, manufactured accident, I don't know."

Prompto absorbs this with his face a perfect blank, like he got switched off for a reboot, and then turns away sharply to make his way over to a bench. Gladio follows close on his heels – ready to catch him if he gets unsteady – and then settles down next to him, feeling huge and unwieldy for some reason. Prompto arranges Marco with absent care, holding him under the arms so he can bounce with his feet braced on Prompto's legs, which makes him so excited he starts to dribble. Gladio wonders if it's too early for him to be getting teeth, and mops the kid up with his handkerchief.

"Damn," Prompto says finally, apparently done absorbing and processing. "That is a thousand kinds of _fucked up_. I mean – holy shit. It wouldn't have had to be rape, even, Iggy's whole life was doing what the king wanted."

"That's still rape," Gladio points out, though he knows what Prompto means. For him, that's the worst part. Regis wouldn't have had to use force or coercion; he'd only have had to ask, and Iggy would have heard an order that he'd be eager to obey. Gladio's ninety-nine percent sure that if it had been him, he'd have spread his legs to serve the crown, too. At least if it'd been him, he'd have been spared being knocked up. An advantage to being a beta. "Not a word I use talking to Iggy, though." He doesn't think he could keep a handle on his temper if Ignis made excuses. "Not that we talk about it a lot."

"How old was the the king when he died?" Prompto asks. He's got a real head for numbers, unfortunately, and it's an ugly calculation. "Fifty, right? Fifty-one?" He doesn't dwell on that, but bites his lip and glances sideways at Gladio in question. "Noct didn't know, he couldn't have. What are we going to tell him?"

Gladio drops his elbows onto his knees, leaning forward, head down, letting his hands hang loose. He hates when the rage wears off, because then he just feels sad and empty. "I have no fucking idea. If we said Iggy's boyfriend died and broke his heart, he'd buy that the same way everyone else does." Even though Gladio knows Ignis hates that particular lie, convenient though it is; he has no use for misguided sympathy.

"Except maybe Noct would want to know he's got a brother."

Gladio never asked Prompto whether he felt any kinship to the clones that had been grown to become Magitek soldiers. He's pretty sure that technically, they were all Prompto's twins, hundreds on thousands of them, and every last one of them died or became a daemon. He's never before wondered how that must _feel_.

"Like just an example," Prompto goes on, tone apologetic but with steel determination underneath, "if Iris was your half-sister, it wouldn't matter, right? She'd still be herself."

"But not my dad, if I learned he was a fucking abuser," Gladio points out, irritated. He knows Prompto's adoptive parents had been competent caretakers if not especially loving, but surely Prompto understands this.

"And I'm saying, good. Better to have an innocent brother or sister than be allowed to believe a lie." He sucks in a breath, and Gladio realizes he's actually so furious he's shaking. "I get why Iggy wouldn't have told Noct when they were younger and why maybe he feels that way now, but Noct's a big boy. He deserves to know. Let Regis' memory tarnish for all I care." He catches himself then, chomping his lip again. Gladio can see he's going to have a mark there. "Though don't tell Marco, okay? He should get the sad dead boyfriend story. Noct can be his weird uncle."

"We're all going to be weird uncles. I made my peace with that." Gladio straightens, and reaches out tentatively to see if Marco will grab onto his finger. Yup. Huh. "All except for you. You're definitely a dad."

Prompto's hand, rubbing Marco's back, stills. "It's up to Ignis. Whether he – "

"Don't think that," Gladio interrupts. "Don't hope he'll wake up paternal some day. Don't dread it, either."

"Dude." Prompto looks at Gladio like he's got three heads. "I wouldn't fight him if he decided," he swallowed, "he wanted to keep Marco himself."

Gladio gives in to the urge to ruffle Prompto's hair. He's adorable. "Yeah, you would. That's what makes you a good dad."

"Fuck," Prompto says, and shakes Gladio off. He looks less like he's channeling the wrath of the gods now, even if it might take some time for his natural bubbly cheerfulness to re-emerge. "Ignis is going to know that I know and everything will be so – " He waves a hand in the air, and Marco jumps, startled. Prompto tucks his arms around him, apologetic, leaning his cheek against that soft baby hair like he's snuggling a chocobo chick. Gladio's dead certain that Marco's going to love Prompto back just as fiercely; how could he not? "Weird," Prompto finally says in conclusion.

"Weird is survivable," Gladio says with a shrug. "It'll work out."

"You should get Iris to put that on a t-shirt for you." Prompto heaves a dramatic sigh and gets up. "Do you think we get lunch today, or is Ignis going to avoid me more than usual?"

Gladio starts off toward the staircase that leads down to the market plaza. "I said I'd kick his ass if there isn't food. But - " he holds out his arm for Prompto to lean on as they climb down " - he's probably left out sandwiches and gone to hang out with the hunters." He waits until they reach the bottom of the stairs, and then asks if Prompto wants him to carry the kid for a while. Prompto looks startled, and then gives Gladio an evil grin as he hands over first the sling and then the kid.

Marco had been tiny as a newborn; he's heavy now, and he grabs onto Gladio's beads and tries to stuff them in his mouth. Gladio hands them over to Prompto for safekeeping, and Marco digs his tiny baby fingernails into a nipple instead.

Prompto is too busy snapping pictures and laughing to rescue Gladio this time.


	2. Chapter 2

If Gladio'd just used his brain for half a minute, he'd have realized something was wrong with Ignis and they might still be in Lestallum and close to doctors.

Instead, no, they're calling off today's hunt early and making camp because Ignis is being stupidly cagey about what's up. Gladio's worried, which makes him angry, making Ignis scathing in return. They do the vicious cycle thing so well, they could turn pro.

Finally, after Ignis has rebuffed every effort Gladio's made to find out where he's hurting or if he's running a fever, Gladio sucks in a deep breath to force himself calm. He tries to imagine what Iris would want him to do.

Step one: stop looming and pacing. The haven has a log in front of the fire where Ignis is sitting, but Gladio drops down to sit cross-legged on the ground, near Ignis but out of arm's reach. Hopefully not threatening. He can see that Ignis is sweating along his hairline, and keeps rubbing at his eyes. He hopes like fuck it's not an infection, and if it is it doesn't harm what remains of Ignis' sight. He knows all Ignis has is light and dark, plus a general idea of whether the light is on the left or the right (no depth perception, though, which sucks). But it's still better than absolute nothing; it'd hurt Ignis a lot to lose the little he can still see, hence why he's religious about his protective eyewear.

Step two: relax. Deep breathing and a conscious attempt to loosen his muscles. When his body's tense, he's primed for an attack. But he doesn't want to fight, really. Ignis looks miserable. Could be the flu. Marco had that a couple months ago, driving Prompto nuts with anxiety. With how packed the city is with refugees, their vaccination program can't keep up with every bug that goes around.

"I am so dreadfully sorry," Ignis says into the silence. His arms are crossed, hands cupping his elbows, and he lets his head hang as if avoiding looking at Gladio. "This is entirely my fault, and you've every right to be angry. I was... selfish."

"Scared, not angry," Gladio admits. It's easier to give that much, now that Ignis has taken the first step toward talking this out. "Don't want anything happening to you on my watch. Anyone's watch. You're important. You know that, right?"

"I think I'm in oestrus," Ignis says, and a jolt goes right through Gladio. "I'm afraid I'm unacquainted with the signs and symptoms – I've read books, but that's hardly..." He lets his voice trail off. 

"First time?" Gladio asks, just to confirm. Ignis grimaces in reply. They both know first heat usually happens between ages fifteen and twenty; that most omegas' cycles settle somewhere between nine and eighteen months, so Ignis should have been through this a handful of times by now. It's not unusual for people coming off birth control to be fertile just before heat sets in, but Gladio thinks it's glaringly awkward that Ignis has been sexually active for years – he has a kid, for fuck's sake – but hasn't experienced oestrus. It's a whole handful of abuse red flags waving. "Sucks," he says, trying to sound sincere. "Glad you're not sick, though. What do you want to do?"

"Assuming death by shame isn't an option – "

"Nope."

"Then I imagine there's naught that _can_ be done, except to prevail on you for privacy."

"We got a tent," Gladio says blandly. Ignis rolls his good eye skyward as if praying for patience. "And I'm up for sex if you want. If it'd help. You're someone I like and trust. I'd be honored."

"Honored," Ignis echoes, scornfully.

"I enjoy sex," Gladio reminds him. "Never slept with an omega, though. Penetration would be off the table the first time – don't give me that look, you know I don't mean that literally. Ass." Ignis' scarred eyebrow raises in silent comment. "I hear it's like being drunk. People – " (he doesn't say _omegas_ or _alphas_ ; that'd be rude, though true) "– agree to stuff in the heat of the moment that they regret afterward. So we better set our limits before inhibitions take a hike."

"You'll note I haven't... consented, if you will, to this idea."

"Then nothing happens." Gladio gives Ignis a slow mean smile, figuring he'll hear it in his tone. "I have a good book to read." He doesn't acknowledge the fear he can perceive now under Ignis' aloof coolness. He gets it: Ignis' sexual history is probably start-to-finish nothing but the courage to keep going back for more of something terrifying and wrong that hurt. So. "I would be more than down for focusing solely on your pleasure. I don't need to come."

Ignis shakes his head to reject the idea vehemently. "I'd feel terrible requesting that of you."

He seems too certain; Gladio wonders if Regis not letting Ignis get off was a thing. "Then how about, I don't need you to make me come." There's no immediate pushback. Good. "Let's throw together a big pot of something filling, enough to last a couple of days. You think about it. Let me know when we're done."

Ignis rolls to his feet, just a bit unsteady, and makes his way over to the cookstation. Gladio follows after a moment. He talks a good game, but he needs to stop and check that he's being honest with himself. He's never been attracted to stereotypical omegas; he likes his partners big, athletic, and brash, the sex fun and one hundred percent divorced from reproductive urges. He's also never considered banging Ignis before, though he's pretty sure that's out of professional courtesy, and because Ignis projects untouchability like a force-field.

He's shocked Ignis is even considering the offer. He suspects he'd planned to power through heat in secret, and breaking down to confess to Gladio is plan B, or maybe as far down as plan C or D. Ignis is pretty out of things, now that Gladio's paying attention. He needs to pause to recall the recipe, and even Gladio can see that he's not focused on his knifework, which he always takes such pride in. When everything's all chopped and tossed in the stewpot, Gladio slides the lid on and goes to prepare the tent. He puts the sleeping mats together in the center with a sheet on top; as an afterthought, he pegs the sheet down to the ground so it doesn't bunch up. He packs all the stuff they won't need into their packs and shoves them to the side, towels and toothbrushes on top, and grabs a blanket to go wrap the pot up in. They don't have the fuel to let it cook for hours; he'll let heat retention do the work.

He finds on going outside that Ignis has taken their buckets down to the stream for water. It's such a stupid, dangerous, stubbornly proud thing to do – he's blind, the ground is uneven, there are daemons, he's in fucking oestrus – that Gladio realizes with a sudden chill that Ignis has made his decision: he's going to allow Gladio to fuck him through his heat.

He's tempted to call Ignis out on his macho bullshit when he sees him making his way up the track, one careful step at a time, but instead takes a couple of deep fucking breaths and then jogs down to demand he hand one of the buckets over.

Back in the haven, Ignis admits he'd appreciate Gladio's assistance, and Gladio says yeah, he's cool with that, and then they look at each other for a long moment, at a loss for how to get started. But then Ignis rubs at his eyes again, and Gladio just wants to make him feel better. That's a thing friends do, he's heard. It's not his beta instincts, it's human compassion, pure and simple.

"Hey babe," he says, putting as much cheesy humor into his tone as he can muster, "let's get naked."

Ignis snorts, but seems to take that in the spirit intended. He slips his braces off his shoulders and starts undoing shirt buttons, matter-of-fact and making no attempt to be seductive. Gladio's not wearing a shirt to start with, and after his boots are wrestled off it takes no time at all to pull of pants and underwear together, hanging them up on the laundry rack to air. He doesn't want to stand around watching Ignis strip, that'd be weird, so he appoints himself a helper.

In between being told to fold things _properly_ , he manages to get his hands on Ignis, which is its own reward. He uses his handsiness to nudge Ignis away from the campfire circle and into the tent, which Ignis allows, though Gladio feels like he's being actively judged.

"Feel like giving me a mouthful of happiness?" he asks, taking advantage of how he needs to duck anyway due to the low roof to brush his lips over Ignis'. He can feel the irritated huff Ignis gives.

"Never say that again," he's instructed, right before Ignis kisses him back.

Gladio's had better kisses, but this one's so sweet it goes right through him like a tidal wave. He doubts Ignis has been kissed before – hopes not, anyway. It's the kind of kiss he'd expect from someone who's only read about the act... and who didn't anticipate that he might be the shorter person in the equation.

He figures the best way to get through this is to spend most of the time making out. He wants Ignis to relax and get an idea of what he's into, plus neither of them knows how long this ride's going to be. So he lets his hands roam as they kiss. Ignis' hair is stiff with gel in the front, but soft enough at the back to slide his fingers through to scratch his nails across his scalp. That makes Ignis gasp, hips jerking forward. Through Ignis' shorts he can feel the hot, hard length of him, as he tries to hold back from rutting against Gladio, gasping out a terse, "Sorry."

"Be sorry if you knee me in the nuts," Gladio says. "Not for having a good time." He slides his other hand down Ignis' spine, from the relatively neutral curve of his shoulder to the small of his back. "You can touch me." He licks the scar over Iggy's bottom lip, just because he can. "If you want."

"I don't know _how_ ," Ignis says, plainly annoyed.

Gladio's not going to coach him, the idea is repugnant, but... "Take me down. Get me on the ground and pin me for a three-count." He grins. "If you can. There's no shame if you – "

For a blind guy who's so horny he can't think straight, Ignis gets mad and gets even _fast_. 

Hand-to-hand combat was part of Crownsguard training, both formal martial arts and dirty street-fighting techniques. Wrestling's not really something that gets practical use, though, at least not against daemons, and Gladio's taken aback by how quickly he has to fight to keep the upper hand. Ignis has been practicing, he realizes, and recently – there's no sense of him struggling to compensate for the lack of sight. Gladio wonders if he has Cor to thank for the way he's getting his ass handed to him. He finally manages to sweep Iggy's feet out from under him, but Ignis pulls him down, too, and then twists like an eel so that Gladio lands first, with Ignis' full weight coming down on him.

"One, two, three," Ignis counts off, while Gladio's staring straight up through watering eyes, trying to get his breath back. "I can't say I'm exactly impressed."

Gladio curls to the side, losing all his air to laughter, and after a moment, Ignis joins him, not even bothering to cover his mouth the way he usually does.

"You are ridiculous," he manages to gasp out, "and you have dreadful ideas."

"Amazing," Gladio corrects, getting an arm around Ignis to drag him down for more kissing. It feels like the barrier between them has broken, now that Ignis has established his superiority, and Gladio's relieved. He runs his hands over as much skin as he can cover, learning Ignis' body by touch, and Ignis does the same. He's apparently fascinated by the play of Gladio's muscles under his fingers, and Gladio flexes for him, does a full Prompto-style gun show, shows off his abdominals.

He tries to explain that he's not trying to emulate an alpha musclehead; it's an aesthetic thing. "I want you to respect me for my mind," he intones soberly, hands kneading Ignis' thighs, which are magnificently muscled in their own lean way.

"If I decide to respect you I'll bear that in mind," Ignis teases back, and then adds, "I'd rather not be on top."

"Anything for you, babe," Gladio says, throwing Ignis down and covering him. He has made a point of never picturing Regis in bed, but the king had back problems and leg problems and was, apparently, a selfish fuck. Ignis has always been flexible and strong; it's not a huge leap of imagination to deduce that Regis made him do all the work.

Which is a major boner-killer, and he doesn't want Ignis to get any weird ideas about Gladio not being into him, or this. So he drags his teeth down Ignis' neck, nibbles at his shoulder, and when that earns him actual writhing, progresses to full-on biting.

Under him, Ignis comes.

Gladio's still processing that when Ignis says, weakly, "Well. That's embarrassing."

"You're supposed to say, _ooh, Gladio, you sex god_ ," Gladio chides, and traces the bite-mark with the tip of his tongue, just to make Ignis writhe more. "I mean – you make me feel like a sex god. Might as well make it official." He stretches over to the side and snags a damp washcloth, which he presses into Iggy's hand. "Unless you're into being messy. Which you might be. You know what they say about perfectionists."

"I neither know nor care," Ignis says archly, mopping up as best he can with Gladio still spread out over him like a comforter. He finally shimmies out of his underwear, now that it's wrecked, kicking it down and away with an impatience that's new, for him.

Gladio chucks the towel over to the side when he's done, and then licks his way all the way down to Ignis' toes, enjoying making him squirm. Ignis is ticklish is odd places: the backs of his knees, along the curve of his hip. He threatens to kick Gladio in the face if he bites his feet, and Gladio has to call him on that, nipping at his toes while pressing his thumb up against the arch of his foot and eliciting a loud groan that makes Ignis cover his face with one hand.

"You've got gorgeous feet," Gladio tells him, sliding up and kneeling so he can press the hard length of his cock along the sole of Iggy's foot. Measuring, maybe. "Like in the fairy tale – just the right size." Someday, if this works out, he's going to have Ignis bring him off with these feet.

"You're a _lunatic_ ," Ignis says, the red flush from his cheeks seeping down to tint his chest, which is heaving. Gladio wants to do things to his nipples. All of him, really. He uses his hand to curl Ignis' toes down over the head of his cock, and is gratified when Ignis takes the initiative, his expression intensifying as he maps out Gladio's length and girth with a slow slide of those toes. When he reaches the base, he slides his foot forward, between Gladio's thighs, pressing up when his balls settle heavy against the top of his foot.

Gladio's got a million questions he's never going to ask, especially now when they're having fun. He's pretty sure the answer to all the _Have you ever_ questions would be no, anyway, and that Ignis would feel bad about that. He doesn't know if Ignis wants or needs to be told what to do; he'll feel like an asshole if that turns out to be true, because that's where Gladio draws the line. He can handle the mental and physical balancing act of fucking Ignis like this, now, just so long as he isn't required to give orders.

Appreciation, though... He can do that. He spreads his legs, gives Ignis more room to play. "Fuck. That's good."

Ignis slides his other foot over until he meets Gladio's leg, and then trails up over folded calf and thigh, finds the knife-crease of Ifrit's girdle and then slides up until he reaches what appears to be his goal. He pinches the nipple between two toes, and Gladio can't help jerking, caught between the two points of pressure, on that electric edge between pleasure and pain.

"If you came back over here," Ignis suggests, his voice low and seductive, but also betraying his amusement, "we could try my manual dexterity next."

"Sure," Gladio says. he catches Ignis' ankle to kiss his toes goodbye for now and then kisses his way back up, reminding all those ticklish spots that he knows where they are. He keeps his mouth off Iggy's dick but he takes a good look as he goes. Iggy's hard again; from what Gladio's heard about oestrus, that's going to be default for at least a couple of days. His dick hasn't lengthened much, but it's a good size, just enough to keep his mouth occupied and not so thick that it'd be hard to suck on. Gladio figures he'll be doing that later.

When Gladio's all the way up, Ignis pulls him into a kiss. He feels a little proud as Ignis experiments with kissing and touching; no one else gets to have this, gets to see Ignis uncertain and willing to make mistakes. Ignis does make good use of his hands, running his fingers through Gladio's hair (and commenting on how long and unruly it is), tracing his spine down to his ass and then grabbing with both hands, encouraging Gladio to flex and rocking his own hips so their dicks slide together. Gladio doesn't let Ignis speed up, makes him hold off on coming as long as he can; they're both sweating and desperate when Ignis finally cries out, rutting up against Gladio and smearing his come between them, fingernails digging into his skin like he wants to drag Gladio all the way inside him.

It's unbearable levels of hotness, and Gladio grabs one of the towels, barely managing to catch his own release in time. Ignis seems confused by what he's doing, but also out of it in general; he's still hard, still being shaken by waves of orgasm, and Gladio's pretty sure (based on porn he's watched, but still) he's going into the primal, trance-like mating phase. 

He wants to tell Ignis he doesn't need to fight it – the mating urge can't be suppressed by will alone – but he suspects that'd have the opposite effect. So instead he reaches down and grabs Ignis' dick, slippery with come, and tells Ignis he should fuck his thighs.

"I like it," he adds, when Ignis blinks at him slowly, like he's drunk. "Come on. It'll be fun."

"Fun," Ignis echoes doubtfully, but he shifts to his side as Gladio instructs, curling around Gladio from the back. Gladio slicks himself with lube, and clenches tight around Ignis' dick as he presses in.

Gladio would bet his whole pension that Ignis had never penetrated Regis; just thinking it feels weirdly treasonous. Some day, if this works out, he's going to get Ignis to fuck him. A common myth about omegas is that they are only capable of being receptive, but Gladio's got hard, thrusting evidence that this isn't so.

He figures that like this, facing Gladio's back and with his mind hijacked by need, Ignis probably misses his sight more than usual, so he lets himself talk more than he usually would. He's been told, by multiple people, _not_ to talk so much during sex, but this is an extraordinary circumstance.

He lets Ignis know how he feels, that he likes it, that he's getting hard again like a fucking teenager. He tells Ignis that he likes being fucked, filled up by a hard cock or a dildo or fingers. He tells Ignis all the ways he's sexy, from those long suckable toes up (and up and up) his legs; the sharp contrast between his prim way of dressing and the gorgeously toned body he hides under his clothes. He takes a long distracting ramble through all the body's major muscles groups and how nice they look on Ignis, which makes Ignis laugh at him again, breathlessly.

"Wait til I start on your central nervous system," Gladio says, giddy and turned on. He reaches back and pulls Ignis closer in a burst of affection.

Ignis, in what is becoming less of a surprise and more of an inevitability, comes.

After cleaning up, Gladio makes them take a break for food and water before starting the next round. He's not sure how it works for alphas and omegas; if neither of them is in their right mind, he wonders if they ever fuck until they pass out from hunger. A lot of books and pop songs make a big deal about the sacred mating bond; maybe it really is amazing and he's missing out by not being on the same horny wavelength as Ignis, but he likes knowing that he's choosing his own actions. He hopes that the omega part of Ignis' brain isn't making him want to be knocked up; he hears that happens, though of course all his friends who went off birth control to have mating sex were doing it because they already wanted kids.

Biology is weird, he decides, and drags Ignis back to bed.


	3. Chapter 3

Alphas and omegas have a reputation for being kinky, and Gladio develops a theory that has nothing to do with biological urges: fucking nonstop for days gets _boring_. He and Ignis fall asleep fucking and wake up fucking; they get sore and cranky, and Gladio really wishes TV was still around so they could laugh at a dumb drama (while fucking).

Ignis broke down hours ago and begged Gladio to finger him, please, because both his own arms were going numb. Flexible he might be, but still not meant to have four fingers up his own ass for so long. Neither of them had thought to bring sex toys on a very ordinary daemon hunt, and this, Gladio thinks, is why some people used to end up having to get shampoo bottles surgically removed.

His one stipulation had been _no penetration_ , but Ignis looks so distraught at even asking that Gladio figures, okay, fingers are fine. He forces Ignis to put up with being told how gorgeous he is, though, and his ass in particular.

Ignis doesn't snark back at him like he usually would. Gladio thinks he's about reached his limit: Ignis is almost totally out of his head most of the time, writhing and moaning like porn in a way Gladio bets he loathes, but so sensitive and bruised that he flinches from anything but a firm touch. His dick gave up on getting hard ages ago, and he's coming dry. His well-fingered ass is stretched and sore-looking, but he keeps driving himself back onto Gladio's fingers, body instinctively looking for the knot that would fill him up and make all his desperation alchemize into bliss. (Or so Gladio assumes, based again on having watched way too much knotting porn at an impressionable age. Back then, no one made beta porn.)

Speaking of which... "Let's try something," Gladio says. "Roll over."

He'd sooner bite his own dick off than order Ignis to present his ass, even if that's what he's aiming for. Instead he gets hands-on and arranges Ignis to his liking, shoulders down and encouraging him to raise his hips.

"Gladio?" Ignis says, dazed but still wary. Gladio winces; he anticipates unhappiness with this when sanity returns.

"Relax," he says, probably the most unhelpful thing to say during sex. "I told you I wasn't going to fuck you, right?"

Ignis shudders. "You could," he points out. It sounds less like that's what he wants and more like he's resigned to the knowledge that he can't resist, not with his body hijacked like this. He'd probably get off on it, even if Gladio spent the whole time talking about how he was going to breed him, knot him, and fill him up with his babies.

"I could do a bunch of stuff," Gladio agrees, and Ignis breathes out harshly, his body going pliant at the same time as he strings together a mostly-coherent apology. "You know me, remember? Better than almost anyone."

The answer takes a while to get through Ignis' brainfog of lust, but he replies, very clearly, "I trust you."

Gladio kisses him on both cheeks, good loud smacking kisses that make Ignis laugh and call him an enormous dork, even as mating instinct curls his spine. Okay, then.

Waterfalling's a whole porn genre that Gladio's never really been into, but what the hell, he's curious so he just dives right in. It's like... rimming plus way too much lube, he decides, but Ignis goes out of his mind, his breath coming in great sobbing gasps. He grinds back into Gladio's face like he wants to be impaled by his tongue, and Gladio has to hold him still or risk drowning in slick. The taste isn't bad, though: sweeter than vaginal lubrication, milder than come. The scent is supposed to drive alphas completely insane with the need to knot and breed.

He swipes his tongue over Ignis' hole, lapping at it like he's trying to cool down the heat there, and then uses the tip to catch at the rim and flick away, repeating the action when he feels Ignis shake under his hands. He experiments with his teeth as well – nibbling, not biting; he isn't going to leave toothmarks on Iggy's ass, not the first time – and with blowing hot and cold across slick-covered skin. He didn't go into this expecting to find it a personal turn-on, but despite having come more in a day than he usually does in a week, Gladio gets hard as he's earning his waterwings, fingertips dimpling Ignis' skin as he starts fucking him with his tongue in earnest. He wants to touch himself; he wants to get his hands wet with Iggy's slick and jack off. He wants – they both know this – to fuck Ignis hard, claim him and mark him and all that cheesy stuff. Knowing he won't is a terrible ache that sits heavy against his common sense.

He's good, though, taking care of Iggy until he finally slides a couple of fingers in alongside his tongue, spreading his rim and sucking at it. Ignis shudders and shouts and comes, sagging down in utter exhaustion as he's wracked by full-body tremors that go on as long as Gladio keeps licking him. He makes a note to remember for next time: Iggy really, really likes this.

But right now Gladio's got a good handful of slick, and he swipes up more, making Ignis gasp and shift away. Gladio's not going to get the real thing, and he's cool with that, but he can fantasize, right? He slides his hand down and then pauses. He doesn't know how Iggy would react, whether this is taking things too far.

"You mind?" he asks, gesturing.

Ignis half-turns over, twisting so he can look up at Gladio, all confusion and adorable fucked-out bliss. "What?" He seems to be more clear-headed, at least more than Gladio, who'd forgotten that he was blind.

"I'm going to bring myself off," Gladio says. "With your – " He doesn't know what to call it. "Slick" is a porn word, and "natural lubrication" sounds dumb. "Seeing as how my hand's all wet anyway," he finishes, and hopes Ignis catches on.

Ignis does, shifting up so he's half-sitting and reaching out for Gladio. He finds his thigh and trails his fingers up, and Gladio breaks out in goosebumps.

"May I help?" Ignis asks, stopping right before his hand's where Gladio wants it. "Or would that be too forward?"

"Please," Gladio gets out from behind gritted teeth. He's not ashamed to beg, not when he's sure that deep down Ignis finds it amusing. "Six yeah – please."

Ignis slides his hand over, and Gladio grabs his dick, offering it up to that questing touch. Ignis smirks at his helpfulness, and then sucks in a breath when he realizes Gladio wasn't joking. His fingers are practically dripping, and the slick transfers easily to his dick and Ignis' fingers. He can't help but imagine, as Ignis quickly explores his dick (with his fingers this time), what it would be like to fuck him, his dick gliding into tight wet heat. To know that deep inside there was an egg demanding fertilization and needing to submit to that biological imperative. The fantasy makes him fuck impatiently into the mesh of their interwoven fingers encircling his dick, working him hard. When it starts to get dry and uncomfortable, Ignis reaches back with his free hand and Gladio can't tear his eyes away from the sight of him fingering himself, harvesting that nectar, and then wiping it up Gladio's cock from root to head.

Gladio tries to warn Ignis that he's about to come, but the words come out garbled, mixed in with his sincere need to let Ignis know how gorgeous he is and how amazing the sex is, how much appreciation he has for being allowed to do this. He's still talking when he comes, and he keeps talking, and somewhere along his stream of consciousness he gives in to exhaustion, and sleeps.

*

Gladio wakes long enough later that he feels refreshed and not run over by a sex train. Ignis is still conked out, starfished on his back, so Gladio grabs the laundry and tiptoes out into the (he checks his phone) mid-morning gloom. The routines of camping out are familiar and deeply pleasing to his sense of self on some primal level. He gets the fire going and sets a cauldron of hot water on, and after tidying up he sees what he can rustle up for breakfast.

By the time Iggy and his record-breaking bedhead stagger out, Gladio has a pan of nearly-coffee waiting. He ladles out a mugful and passes it over. Ignis doesn't grumble about the taste the way he usually does. Gladio wonders if he feels too vulnerable when he's naked to complain. 

"Hey, birthday-suit boy," Gladio says. "I promise I brushed my teeth, do I get a good morning kiss?"

Ignis makes a face.

"Or there's wash-water, if you're feeling gross. Not saying you look gross," he adds, wincing a little under Iggy's unamused stare. "I'd lick you all over for proof, but you probably want to have a heavy talk first. Bath, clothes, food first?" He shrugged, trying to loosen his shoulders. "It's a beta thing."

"Don't start that with me," Ignis snaps, irritated. Gladio blames half of it on the lack of caffeine. "Where are the towels?"

"I like when you're bossy," Gladio reminds him, and accepts a rude hand gesture in reply.

Ignis is still out of it enough that he lets Gladio help with the washing and dressing, which is… well. Most people think of beta-instinct as the need to hold a community or society together, working in tandem with the way alphas and omegas create family units. But there are ( _used to be_ ) whole academic fields of research into nature and nurture, and aside from that, hardly anyone fits tidily into their stereotypical role. Ignis was supposed to nurture Noct in lieu of his deceased mother; probably no one who knew him at age six predicted how lethal he'd be at sixteen. Gladio was probably supposed to have a mental breakdown after the trauma of losing Insomnia and being helpless to save his King

But Gladio keeps himself busy. He has to make sure the Crownsguard are ready for Noct's return; there are still citizens who need protecting; and he has the sad broken family of Prompto, Marco, and Ignis to take care of. He's never considered trying out a relationship of his own, but that's what he's having a warm little fantasy about as he dries Ignis' freshly-washed hair with a towel. As Ignis _lets him_ do that.

They settle down on the log, side by side, to eat bowls of reheated stew in silence. Off in the distance, an iron giant is swatting absently at a troop of imps, and Ignis keeps an ear turned in their direction, always wary. Daemons don't kill each other, for some reason; even when they're different species, they team up together to attack humans. Gladio doesn't get it, but he's been told by his favorite biologist that it makes no sense scientifically, either.

When they're done eating, Gladio tells himself to stop waffling like a coward.

"You and me," he says, "we're good together. Not many people get me like you do. Maybe the opposite is true, too. I know... you would've wanted your oestrus to have gone down differently, and I'm sorry you didn't get that choice. Next time, though. If you ask me, I'll still be honored. It was good." He tries not to sound too enthusiastic and scare Ignis off, but has to roll his eyes at himself for being so stupidly bland.

At his side, Ignis pushes his visor up, as if making sure his eyes are hidden. "If you sincerely mean you'd not mind, then I will prevail on your kindness, until such time when you've no desire to continue."

"Some people would just say 'yes'," Gladio grumbles. "I'm changing my status on MoogBook to _Iggy's booty call_."

"Please don't." Ignis crosses his arms. "I know I was lucky that it was you." He says it matter-of-fact, but they're both aware of how bad things could have gone, if Iggy had been in the city, or out with other hunters, or alone.

"You say the sweetest things, babe," he deflects, banishing worst-case scenarios to the back of his mind. "I winked, just now. FYI."

"Can we," Ignis starts, the words stringing together with slow caution; Gladio braces himself for bad news, "take things as they come?" His hands on his elbows are clenched so tight his fingertips are digging in, and Gladio wants to take each hand and soothe it straight. "Perhaps... have regular sex. Or go out. Perhaps."

Gladio forces himself to not say the first, second, or third things which come to mind. They're all variations on _what the fuck_ , and Iggy would take that the wrong way. Because he's not suggesting sensibly-planned oestrus hookups, which was the most Gladio had hoped for and all he'd dared to offer. Ignis wants more, and Gladio knows for a fact that Ignis sucks at asking for what he wants, especially if it matters.

"Yeah," he says, and needs to clear his throat. "Damn. That'd be – I'd like that." He's never thought about Ignis dating, either, which seems like a stupid oversight now. Iggy's been through a lot of shit, but he's not broken. He presses his leg against Ignis', in apology for what he's thinking. Ignis pushes back immediately, like he'd been starving for contact but maybe didn't even realize himself. Gladio's going to have to work on that."You can take me dancing."

Ignis is startled into turning to look at him; a little wary at first, as if maybe he worries Gladio's mocking him, and then that smirk of his appears. "You dance terribly."

Gladio shrugs. "Could use a good teacher, then." He tries to hum a waltz, but gives up when he loses the beat and stops being able to hear himself over the sound of Ignis smothering snickers in his fist. Gladio reaches over and nudges Ignis' shoulder, and then lets his arm settle there. Ignis shifts, just enough that their shoulders touch. "Give in, make me happy, it's not like you need all ten toes anyway. Though they are cute."

"I don't know why people persist in thinking _I'm_ the eccentric one in our friend group."

"You put the most effort into pretending to be normal." Gladio pats Ignis' shoulder companionably. He wonders if Ignis would lean his head on him. It'd be fucking cute. He reaches up and scratches Ignis behind the ear like one of Noct's stray cats. "You've got to be hiding something. Plus, you kick knives out of the air _while fucking blind_." Speaking of dangers to Iggy's toes.

"That makes _me_ happy," Ignis says primly, even though he's letting himself be soothed. "And I can hardly turn the blindness off when it becomes inconvenient."

Gladio snorts. "True. Is it ever convenient?"

"Not especially." 

Gladio is torn between voicing his very genuine sympathy – Ignis would hate that – or being a total ass. He decides on the latter. "Come here and sit in my lap, let me hug you and call you sweetheart."

Ignis elbows him, which he absolutely deserves, but then gives him a sidelong look that Gladio doesn't like in the least. "Please don't ask me to talk about it," he says, and his head does drop down to Gladio's shoulder, like he's hiding, "but he never called me anything behind closed doors aside from _you_ or _boy_. You needn't avoid using my name."

Gladio keeps petting Ignis' hair; it gives him something calming to focus on while he pushes down the spike of rage that goes through him. The dead are dead; his duty is to the living. "Do I do that?" He can't remember. It's probably not conscious.

Ignis hums. "But you're also a ridiculous person who has truly terrible pet names for his sister. That is certainly also a contributing factor."

Gladio is wounded, right in the heart: sure, Iris will always be Moogle Butt to him, but Ignis must have heard the names she calls him in retaliation. He ducks his head to nuzzles his cheek against Ignis' in a blatant plea for affection. Ignis struggles to escape, but he's laughing at the same time. "One of these days I am going to _murder_ you." He raises a hand and finds Gladio's cheek, fanning his fingers out and tracing the long scar there with his thumb.

"Sure thing, boss," Gladio says. Ignis huffs and then tips his head up to kiss Gladio; off-center at first, but he corrects course and then Gladio's in trouble, drowned in experimental kisses. All he can do is slide his fingers into Ignis' hair and hang on, kissing and being kissed and full of unexpected happiness, bubbling up and all through him.

*

Gladio doesn't think of what and how to tell Prompto until they are literally walking through the front door. He worries for a minute, but Prompto and Iris need to be relieved of baby duties, and Ignis is putting away their supplies and running a bath. Plus their weapons need cleaning. Normal, comfortable chaos, that distracts him completely.

Ignis must have told him what happened at some point, though, because a distinct icy chill settles between Gladio and Prompto. Nothing hostile, just a sense that he's being watched and judged, especially any time he touches Ignis. Which is untenable, because he wants to touch him all the time. Have sex again, though with how crowded the apartment is he's not sure how to find privacy. He kisses Ignis, but only when Prompto's not in the room, and it grates on his nerves.

The next time Ignis has a planning committee meeting, Gladio waits until he's left and then leans against the wall and asks Prompto what the hell his problem is.

He doesn't want to find out he's prejudiced, but better to know.

When Prompto replies he's tight-lipped and tense. "Iggy's not on birth control. I mean – the implant he had was fake anyway and no one's making new ones these days. If you had condoms they were probably old."

Gladio's touched and insulted simultaneously. "We didn't do that." Prompto squints, so Gladio demonstrates via obscene gesture. Prompto's cheeks go red, like he'd been slapped. "And I was careful." He stops short, realizing that he sounds like the bad alpha boyfriend in too many after-school dramas for teens. "You know I'm a beta, right?"

"There's still a chance," Prompto insists, but his shoulders drop and he looks less miserable. He's right, but the odds of a beta knocking an omega up are slim-to-nothing, even in oestrus. "Really? Are you – ?"

"Pretty sure," Gladio says, slow enough that Prompto realizes what a dumb thing that was to ask. "You want me to whip my dick out for you?"

"Abortions are really easy to come by now, but they're more dangerous every day," Prompto says flatly. "Which," he meets Gladio's eyes, "you know. I know you know, and I'm glad both of you weren't off your heads."

Gladio's pissed off enough that he nearly makes a crack about knowing Prompto didn't want to be saddled with another kid, but – that would be spectacularly assholish of him. Inexcusably, irredeemably so. Instead he says, trying not to sound mulish, "It was safe sex. I took good care of him."

"He take care of you?" Prompto asks, transitioning smoothly from one set of worries to another. "Are you okay? You didn't have a choice."

"Yeah, I did." Gladio frowns. "It bugs you, though. Talk to me."

Prompto shakes his head, pressing his lips together. Gladio gives him time. After a bit, Prompto says, "I should be happy that he's moving on or whatever. And that he chose you and not a stranger. But even though I try I just feel sulky and I don't know why."

"Give me the kid for a couple days," Gladio offers. "Go out clubbing, have fun, act like a twenty-two-year-old. Get a tattoo."

Prompto smirks and gestures at Gladio's face, amused. "Or a cool scar."

"Both. I love being a role model."

"I picked up a couple cactuar-land kits the other day," Prompto says, with a guilty glance to see if Gladio's judging him for wasting money. Gladio's got bigger fish to fry.

"For Talcott? He's going to love that. You could deliver them in person – he still staying in Hammerhead? I could drive you there."

Prompto looks relieved, almost on the verge of actual happiness, and Gladio would probably promise him anything if it would bring back his carefree smile. But then he says, cheerfulness taking a nose-dive, "I hate to even say this, but can it just be us? Not Iggy. I'm sorry," he adds in a rush, crossing his arms defensively. "I know I suck. I just. I want things to be simple."

Gladio's stung on Ignis' behalf and sympathetic to Prompto, because it's true. Ignis does complicate things, but not on purpose. Not entirely. (Gladio yelled at Ignis once, asking him what the hell he'd been thinking putting on the ring, didn't he know it destroyed anyone who wasn't a king? Ignis had snapped back that he hadn't prioritized his own survival at the time. It took a week after that before Gladio could talk to Ignis without wanting to punch him in the face.)

"Sure," Gladio says now. "No problem." Ignis won't mind. Why would he?


End file.
